Snow falling softly on lashes of eyes you love, and a cold cheek growing warm next to your own in hushed dark familial December.

I do not usually revise much, though I often cut, particularly the end or toward the end of a poem

In the past I have declined to comment on my own work: because, it seems to me, a poem is what it is; because a poem is itself a definition, and to try to redefine it is to be apt to falsify it; and because the author is the person least able to consider his work objectively

However, if a poem can be reduced to a prose sentence, there can't be much to it.

Looking at the sky last night and the moon in the first fresh dark, just a few stars, bright with their cold flares, I had a little crumpled thought, 'Oh well, the moon. It's just another place like California.' One's imagination drags its feet as we are inexorably hauled into the future.

Snow falling softly on lashes of eyes you love, and a cold cheek growing warm next to your own in hushed dark familial December.

What are the questions you wish to ask?